


Jeffrey Miller has Liked this photo!

by gala_apples



Category: I Want To Go Home! - Gordon Korman
Genre: M/M, Married Couple, Social Media, Twits, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A picture's worth a thousand words...but sometimes it's nice to write those words too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeffrey Miller has Liked this photo!

It starts as a joke. Rudy’s job involves what he calls an unfortunate amount of social media. He’s not twelve anymore, his boss won’t accept ‘I don’t do social media’ the way that so many other authorities had from him. Still, he goes about it in a particularly Rudy-like way. In the last week a pickle account and a leather supply account have been among the Twitters affiliated. Mike would follow him to watch, but as Rudy says, “no personal accounts, Webster.” Anyway, it’s better that Rudy comes home with stories to tell. Second hand witty dialogue is as good as first hand. Better even. Rudy likes to see him laugh.

“I had to Facebook today,” Rudy says, putting his messenger bag down on the kitchen counter. There it will stay, until one of them starts making dinner and needs the room. “The sheer number of twits is staggering.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Mike isn’t sorry at all. He’s enjoyed Rudy’s acidic rants for over a decade now. It’s the kind of thing you say though.

“I found a particularly interesting one, however,” Rudy continues, twisting to look at him briefly before going back to pouring his juice mix. One part orange juice, one part raspberry, one part flat ginger ale. Mike could pour it with his eyes closed.

The statement is enough to trigger Mike’s intrigue. Rudy hardly ever finds anything interesting. “Yeah?”

“A Camp Algonkian reunion page. If you’ve ever been wise enough to like Alcatraz you’re welcome to join.”

“And is G Gunhold Inc affiliating?”

“Gunhold senior never went to camp. He was too busy summering in Cape Verde.”

“Was Chip on there?” Mike hasn’t thought about Chip in forever. He can’t help but wonder if he wears stupid white shorts all year round.

“Webster, I am appalled.” Rudy clasps his hand to his chest, and even though his expression doesn’t change one iota, Mike starts to grin because he knows this is a joke. “I was on work time. I hardly wasted it checking out every member. What would my boss have said?”

“Shape up or you don’t eat?”

“Precisely.”

After dinner Mike sinks into the brown microsuede couch and opens his laptop over his thighs. His sole purpose isn’t Facebook, but it is his third tab. The top wall post is by Harold Greene. Mike’s lips reflexively form the words _you twit_ , though he doesn’t say it out loud. Since he and Rudy moved in together they’ve had a ‘talking during commercials only’ rule. Rudy enforces it as hard as he used to ‘no acoustic guitars’. Staying silent he clicks on the blue name and starts to troll his old arch nemesis’ life as presented. Each piece of information annoys Mike more than the last. It comes as no surprise that Harold is a dull ignorant Republican; basically everything Mike despises in a person. He keeps clicking around anyway. He wants a full update before he spams Harold with as many far left articles and gifs as he can before he gets blocked.

There’s a folder of family photos. They’re all blonde and rich and awful, there are backgrounds like yachting and equestrian. In one his two sons are standing in front of a very familiar rustic setting. In the personal note underneath Harold says he owes his family to Camp Algonkian because his wife is Dave’s younger sister. It strikes a nerve. One Mike would have never guessed he even had. His damn husband is in his life because of damn Camp Algonkian, but you don’t see him goddamn bragging like a fucking asshat about it. You don’t see him giving Director Warden yearly donations like he’s still paying off his bride price.

Mike is jolted from his mental rant by a sharp two fingered jab to the ribs. “Don’t snarl,” Rudy admonishes. “It’s not a commercial.”

He closes the tab. It’s the only real option. If he keeps looking he’ll keep feeling pissy, which means he’ll keep vocalising. He can always go back later and spam him when Rudy’s at work.

Except, it hits him at two in the morning. He’s walking back to their bedroom from a middle of the night pee and trips on the extension cord that lets them have a fan on the night stand. It keeps Mike cool enough to be able to share a bed with a human furnace, and it provides loud white noise, which is necessary when Rudy’s sneaking around the house at six am for work. It’s not the first time Mike’s tripped, and it won’t be the last. It _is_ the first time he does a header into the woven basket hamper. It’s the sudden scent of boy-grunge that does it. He knows what he has to do to get Harold back.

After a good night’s sleep and a decent brunch, Mike gives the idea further thought. The way he figures it, he needs five things to make this plan work. None are all that difficult, he should be prepared by the time Rudy gets home.

White shorts are the hardest. He doesn’t own any. Mike’s never seen anybody wear any. And because nobody has ever had them as part of their wardrobe, the three thrift stores he checks are utterly lacking in used pairs. In the end it takes a sports gear place. Tennis players like white, for some reason.

The second article is easier, if time consuming. He has to print out, then cut out a stencil and then spray paint it on two shirts. It doesn’t sound hard, but some of the letters are finicky. By the end of his crafting Mike swears never again. If he ever needs another sloganed shirt he’ll go to Zazzle or something.

The last three items come together quickly. Mike doesn’t need to buy socks or sneakers, and there are whistles at the dollar store. 

He can hear the car door thump closed at the usual time. Mike uses the time it takes Rudy to walk up the sidewalk to run around the living room and pick everything up. By the time Rudy comes inside he’s got half of the items in a bundle in his arms. Mike thrusts the whole pile at Rudy. “I want to wear these and I want to take a picture and post it.”

Rudy eyes the predominantly white pile placidly. “Dressup, Webster?”

“Indulge me.”

The times Mike asks for things are far and few between. That’s good because it lets him stockpile goodwill. Inasmuch as Rudy has goodwill, at least. Rudy takes his pile.

“This is not a superhero costume,” he says evenly five minutes later.

“Not quite,” Mike manages to reply. He’s half hard. He didn’t think he’d have this kind of reaction. Nothing about creating the uniforms was sexy. Wearing them is a different story.

They have a tripod camera, a Christmas present from Jeffrey. It was used once or twice, not that there’s any wear and tear. Jeffrey has a habit of buying things he doesn’t really need during the year and regifting them in December. They still have the unicycle in the corner of the garage. Rudy rides it perfectly, of course. Mike rigs the camera to auto snap, and sets the tripod up in the kitchen in front of the fridge. Part of it is because that’s where the light’s best, and their white shorts will contrast well against the chestnut cabinets. Most of it’s because of the fridge that will be in the corner of the shot. Nothing says domestic bliss like a refrigerator with a lifetime’s worth of pictures and souvenir magnets.

Mike can’t count the number of times he’s kissed Rudy. It’s easily in the five digits. Nearly all of them have been good. None have ever felt this insanely kinky. He doesn’t want to do this just for the plan. He wants to do this because of how subversive it feels. He was never a leather jacket and safety pins guy in high school, but now Mike understands the urge. There’s a power in wearing clothing that other people don’t think you should. Every single Camp Algonkian alumni is going to be furious that the two least liked campers in the history of the camp have turned into a wall of solidarity, corrupting their own uniform. He can’t think of anything hotter than Harold Greene’s impotent fury.

Somewhere along the line Rudy’s leg pushes against his. Mike grants him access, spreading his knees. They rub against each other then. Mike doubts Rudy’s doing it for the same reasons he is, he probably doesn’t feel the thrill of rebellion woven into the high cotton socks and thigh flashing shorts. Rudy doesn’t really feel thrills. But that makes it almost better. Rudy’s doing this for him, Rudy’s into him. Mike will never get over that.

After a bit of technological wrangling the photos are on the computer. They eliminate any shots after the four minute mark, which appears to be when their hands started wandering. A short debate leaves them with three pictures pruned down from dozens. One where they’re stepping towards each other, hand chastely in hand, still separate enough that the words Camp Algonkian are possible to put together. One where they’re kissing, Mike’s hand curled in the hem of Rudy’s shirt, Rudy holding him in place by the whistle’s lanyard. And one where they’re grinning at the camera, hair mussed, lips red, a bit slumped from being sated.

“You sure about this, Webster?” Rudy uncharacteristically questions. Rudy doesn’t question, he _does_. From anyone else the equivalent would be mind crushing, paralysing doubt. “Facebook, unfortunately, is forever.”

Mike considers answering seriously for a moment, something about how everyone they care about already knows, and he doesn’t want to work at a place that will have a problem with who he is. Then he looks down at what he’s wearing. “As co-counsellors of Cabin 472 Burdick, it would be a shame if we didn’t represent ourselves.”

Rudy nods once, and clicks on the bulk upload. He tags both of them and writes the comment with the ease of a man who does PR for a living. _We owe our love to Camp Alkatraz too- Miller & Webster_, he’s typed. Mike grins fondly. Of course Rudy knows what brought this on. He knows everything, after all.

Mike checks back the next day. From what he can tell Harold Green shit himself with rage about them ‘flaunting their perversion’, but he’s by far in the minority. Most of the men that have replied with negatives have problems with him and Rudy wearing the uniform when they’ve never been counsellors, not with the gay thing. And Dave is pissed off because a decade later the camp still hasn’t run out of the thousand volleyballs Rudy ordered when he was boss for the day. On the other hand, Pierre has called out Harold for being a twit, although he didn’t use that word. Steve from cabin 13 asked if they’re legally married. Chip -fucking Chip, of all people- says that they’re looking good, and wants to know what life’s been like since they finished their ‘sentence’. It’s not all bad.

Maybe he’ll keep the uniform for Christmas photos.


End file.
